Adventure & Optimism
En Route to 6 Months in Santiago, Chile
26 September 2013. Delta 147: ATL-SCL.
I love flying at night. The peculiar arrangement of glowing orange shapes against infinite blackness reminds me of how trivial-beautiful-confusing-exciting-inescapable life can be. Dinner was served over Florida. Three bridges crossing a bay and the distinct shape of an international airport I know well betrayed the presence of Tampa below. As the gulf coast glided along outside my window, I found myself reminiscing about the ten warm months I spent living in Sarasota. About the many friends I made (and, unfortunately, a few not-so-friends). The incredible lessons I had learned working at the state theater of Florida, in the shadow of John Ringling’s Venetian-Moroccan winter palace, began to cloud my first of nine hours in the sky. I could now make out the small nebula of Sarasota’s small city center, the angelic orb of St. Armand’s Circle, and Siesta Key (in the shape of a prize-winning turkey leg you could only find at the best county fairs).
“Chicken or pasta?” the flight attendant asked. And to the man seated beside me, “Pasta o pollo?”
Was it really that obvious?
Is it just me, or has airplane food actually gotten pretty good while I wasn’t looking? Maybe it’s just Delta (a favorite of mine, I’ll happily admit). An endless library of complimentary entertainment within wrist’s reach accompanied my meal. The next time I looked up, more lights below. Fainter. But these were perpendicular to those that illuminated the gulf coast. Could it be the Keys?
I consulted the Live Map on the screen in front of me. Cuba. An island so close to those of us in the States, and yet so very far. Ironically, one of the things I learned while working in Florida was just how hard it is to get to Cuba. Even with the recent policy changes, the hurdles are immense.
Farther in the distance I could make out Havana, a city that has seen its fair share of hard times. Looking down at her melancholy street lamps, I was overcome with an ideological feeling of Panglossian proportion. I wish we lived in a world without borders; I wish that every person on this planet could feel the giddiness I felt waiting in the jetway boarding this flight to Santiago. Knowing that I had made this decision, that I had purchased this ticket with my own money, that I was exercising my free will as a human being to experience a new, different culture for half a year and, consequently, for better or worse.
I decide on a movie to watch and think, Maybe by making this journey, our world will have one less border than before. After all, I’m following through on this hair-brained idea to learn about the theater culture in Latin America, and there is no art form that brings people together the way theater does.
It’s a comforting thought.
The Live Map tells me I’ll be able to see Panama City from my side of the plane in a little while. 33,000 feet up. 558 miles per hour. 7 hours to go. The Mar Caribe below.
